


Crepuscular

by arboreal_overlords



Category: Wooden Overcoats
Genre: Author read too much Avi as a child, Chapman Needs Friends, M/M, Omniscient Mouse Narrator, Piffling Vale has a canonical owl sanctuary, Rudyard Has No Chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 12:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13763733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arboreal_overlords/pseuds/arboreal_overlords
Summary: Madeline used to be the only animal companion of the Funns in Piffling Vale. She isn’t any more.Rudyard accidentally adopts a barn owl and things escalate from there. Chapman stews over the sudden lack of Funn sabotage in his life. Madeline would just like some peace and quiet.





	Crepuscular

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon through the post-Season-2 Funn Fragments. Season 3 begins TOMORROW (huzzah!) so I wanted to get this up in time.
> 
> I don’t own Wooden Overcoats, please donate to them in in their next kickstarter and help them run this delightful thing for many more seasons.
> 
> There isn't NEARLY enough Antigone and Georgie in this fic, IMO, but I can always write a follow-up. Also, just general warning for Rudyard and Chapman's dysfunctional relationship, which depends on a level of glacial patience and badly-planned sabotage that sounds deeeeeply unhealthy out of context (and honestly, sometimes in context).

It all began with the death of Major Guildenstern. No one in Piffling Vale had known whether or not the old man was actually a Major, but he was often spotted pottering around his overgrown backyard in nineteenth-century navy regalia, digging holes and cheerfully shouting commands at the shrubbery. The title had been bestowed by the town to give the whole thing a veneer of propriety.   

The Major’s death was hardly a shock-- with that many trenches, it was only a matter of time before he fell in one and broke his neck. Rudyard had noted his name down years ago in his “Piffling Vale Death Watch” list, a handwritten, annotated piece of paper which was badly hidden right by the front counter of Funn Funerals.

As the official Funeral Mouse of Funn Funerals, I was hard at work in my office, writing new draft pages of  _Memoirs of A Funeral House Mouse_. My office, which was in the converted astronaut helmet of Antigone’s now-defunct survival suit, was situated perfectly to observe the sudden flurry of activity.

“Georgie!” Rudyard yelled, pulling on his shoes as he flew across the front room, “The moped! Now!”

I was insistent that Rudyard bring me along-- I had never been to Major Guildenstern’s property, and I felt it my authorial duty to fully describe every nook and cranny of Piffling Vale. I felt a thrill of excitement as we sped off, Rudyard already mumbling happily, something about choking Chapman with epaulettes.

Despite our speed, there was already a large crowd gathered next to the Major’s house —though they were standing outside the barn rather than the porch, which was odd. Rudyard immediately darted off the back of the moped, tripping up the stairs into the house, while Georgie drove over to see what all the fuss was about.

Perching on a windowsill of the barn was an enormous white owl, impassively staring at the admiring crowd. While Piffling Vale had a large owl sanctuary, no one actually visited it, since the owls had grown rather vicious and there were no human workers to impose some sort of avian law and order. I had written several letters to the Piffling Times in protest, but the wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly.

So, this owl, out of the bounds of the sanctuary, was causing quite a stir. Given the state of the inside of the barn, it seemed that this particular owl had taken up residence in Major Guildenstern’s backyard long ago. Chapman was, of course, at the front of the crowd, gesturing to it while he lectured eagerly.

Georgie put down a foot to steady her moped and angled her head to better see the bird. “I thought owls were nocturnal.”

“Actually Georgie,” Chapman broke in, “Most owls are crepuscular— that is to say, they emerge most frequently in twilight and early morning, but rarely in hours of full daylight”

“Much like me, then.” There was a quiet kerfuffle amongst the rest of the townspeople as Antigone seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

“Antigone Funn!” one gasped, “I thought you-” 

“I’m not,” Antigone snapped, “I even have  _paperwork_  now.”

“Attagirl” Georgie said approvingly.

As if responding to this momentary diversion of the crowd’s attention, the owl let out an unearthly sound, a combination of a hiss and a screech. It’s face was a perfectly white and flat sloping surface, with two eyes like enormous black pits without any hint of cornea. It’s beak was long and mostly hidden behind feathers, coming to a thin, cruel point at the bottom of its face.

“It’s rather lovely, isn’t it?” Antigone said in awe.

As if in response to the compliment, the owl elongated its body and opened its wings, rising up from the branch to soar soundlessly over their heads.

Distantly, they could hear a hoarse yelp.

“Now _see_  here—”

Rudyard, a beanpole of a shadow in the evening dusk, was dancing about farther down the yard, his hands moving around his torso as if trying to grab something. The owl was circling around his head, screeching near-continuously while Rudyard snapped back at it.

“No, you cannot have— Madeline, if you would just stay—- Yes, I realize the logistics of the food chain, I’m just saying not this one— MADELINE, I have the situation entirely in hand!!”

In my defense, he did not have the situation in hand. While I’m very fond of him, Rudyard’s hands have never come close to grasping a situation in the whole of his adult life.

As the only officially-situated funeral mouse of Piffling Vale, I had enjoyed a relatively predator-free existence up until now. Mousetraps were forbidden in most dwellings after a close call that ended with a dust-up between Rudyard and Sid Marlowe a year ago, and all of the cats on the island received enough canned food to not bother stalking around for more. While Georgie’s Nana’s dog Timmy had given me the odd occasional sniff, I had never actually been hunted before.

My mad scramble inside Rudyard’s sweater, while not my most decorous moment, was thus brought on by sheer instrictive panic. One cannot become a Sunday Times Bestselling author while being digested by a owl, after all. While swathed in moth-eaten wool, I could hear the growing noise of people running toward us, expressing muffled words of concern (Antigone, Georgie and Chapman) or amusement (literally everyone else).

Eventually Rudyard stopped hopping about, and I could feel a sudden great weight causing his body to cant to the left. Peaking just slightly out of a particularly large moth-hole near his collar, I saw that the great beast had settled on Rudyard’s outstretched arm, and was gazing on him with glacial tolerance as he spoke more calmly to it.

“See here, you’re free to roam about Piffling Vale and hunt all you like, but Madeline is my mouse—”

I gave a squeak of outraged protest.

“--sorry, not my mouse, but she lives with me and my sister, and she’s the Official Funeral Mouse of Funn Funerals.”

The owl slowly pivoted its face without moving the rest of its body, and gave a shriek that was slightly less murderous and more inquisitive.

Rudyard chuckled. “I’d never heard of an Official Funeral Mouse either, but she’s a marvelous accountant.”

Chapman, who had been striding forth with the certainty Rudyard needed saving from avian predators, was now watching the proceedings with disbelief. He turned to Georgie. “Is he— can he really understand that owl?”

Georgie shrugged. “Suppose so.”

“Right,” hedged Chapman, his eyes flitting around at the other Piffling Vale citizens, who were watching the exchange with benign interest.

“Genevieve has decided that she’d like to stay at Funn Funerals for a bit, try on being an Official Funeral Owl,” Rudyard announced with excitement.

“Well, “ Sid Marlowe said while scribbling, “that’ll be a story.”

Mayor Desmond Desmond beamed across the crowd. “How wonderful! What a distinguished mark for our village.”

Rudyard sneered over at Chapman. “I bet you don’t have an owl, Chapman.” His face faltered for a minute. “Wait, you don’t have an owl somewhere in there, do you?”

“I definitely do not.” Chapman said. “Well done, Rudyard.”

Rudyard and the owl made a similar preening motion.

 

**X X X X X X X**

 

What followed was one of the most harrowing weeks of my young life. While Rudyard had assured me that the owl --Genevieve-- respected my status as fellow Funeral Animal too much to eat me, I had my doubts. Rudyard’s meticulous plans had a habit of falling into spectacular shambles, and I wasn’t going to let this one have fatal consequences for me. I dedicated myself to adding illustrations to my book manuscript, and stayed close in my helmet-office.

Despite my concerns, it was clear that having Genevieve around was having a clear effect on Rudyard, who hadn’t attempted to make a friend since Jerry’s untimely death in the uranium mines. Having an owl as a companion, it seems, was a bit more high profile than a mouse, and a number of Piffling Vale inhabitants who wouldn’t normally give Rudyard the time of day would sometimes stop over to say hello and gawk.

As his oldest and closest friend, it was a bit trying.

 

Indeed, the only individual who was having a more trying week was Eric Chapman.

 

**X X X X X X X**

 

Chapman was having one of his most productive weeks in months. The Heywood, Waple, and Wever funerals were smashing successes— the families gushed their praise, even as they shed cathartic tears over the artfully arranged bouquets and gourmet catering.

The funerals were perfect— no interlopers hiding in trees, no insulting wreaths, no exploding uranium mines.

It was, Chapman thought while sitting alone at home with his light ale, incredibly boring. He had stolen the Waple woman right from under the nose of the Funns, surely that merited at least a public confrontation, if not outright sabotage.

By Thursday, he had added a fifth floor to Chapman’s and created a personalized fireworks show for the recently deceased Gregory Fletcher, each one shaped like one of his favorite shepherd figurines. Every single one let off without incident. Chapman was miserable.

The next time I saw him, he was edging into Funn’s funeral with a white baker’s box in hand.

“Hello Funns!” he began, “I happened to have these extra shepherd macaroons and . . .” He trailed off, realizing that the room was filled with at least six people, which was three more than he ever expected to see inside the parlour.

“Chapman!” Rudyard said with less vigor than usual. “What do you want?”

Chapman looked around at the people, sitting in a tight circle around the floor. Mayor Desmond Desmond was there, with Reverend Nigel, who was whispering conspiratorially to him. Three teenage hoodlums were lounging in a cluster, looking over at Genevive, who was perched regally on Rudyard’s shoulder. “Pulling semiotic meaning out of chaos, though, what better symbolizes the deconstruction of language?” one of the hoodlums said. Genevieve hooted.

“Sorry?” Chapman asked

Georgie rolled her eyes. “We’re playing Boggle.”

“We have five words” Mayor Desmond Desmond announced with excitement. Rudyard turned his derisive snort into a sneeze, so you could tell he was really making an effort to be nice.

“I have these macaroons from the Fletcher funeral,” Chapman offered.

“Damn, did you get that one?” Rudyard said in his direction, not looking up from the board. “Oh yes, well done Genevive, I hadn’t seen that word.” Georgie took the box of cookies from Chapman with a look approaching pity.

“Genevieve and I have seventeen words” Rudyard announced triumphantly.

“I didn’t know you had started a Boggle club,” Chapman remarked quietly, unheard in the melee. I offered words of condolence from the far windowsill, since I was also unable to participate. Unfortunately, Chapman couldn’t understand me.

As Chapman slipped away, Antigone caught up with him.

“Aren’t you assisting Georgie in your Boggle competition?” Chapman asked, trying to sound more peppy than he actually felt.

Antigone rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, Rudyard got into it with one of the hoodlums over the spelling of ‘logorrhea.’ He’s wrong, but he thinks it’s a matter of honor, so it should be a while.”

Chapman tried not to smile fondly.

“Listen Chapman,” Antigone shifted. “Rudyard is kinder to animals. And he’s nicer when he’s around them. A bit. People don’t want to kick him quite as much, anyway.”

“I don’t want to kick him,” Chapman protested.

“Yes, well, you’re rather a saint, aren’t you?” Antigone asked, her eyes misting over briefly. “A blond Saint George, holding your sword-- yes, sorry, shut up.”

Chapman waited, not really sure how to respond.

“Anyway, Chapman, we’re not like you. People don’t like us. Well, they think I’m dead. But they especially don’t like Rudyard. So if you could tone it down for the next few weeks, he’s much less poisonous when not actively planning your demise.”

“Tone what down?” Chapman asked with affront, trying not to think about the May Day light show for the cemetery that he was planning for next week.

“Just try to be a bit less . . .” Antigone trailed off, making a squiggly, contorted gesture with her hands.

“Sorry, a bit less what?”

“Oh, you know,” she huffed, turning to walk back inside Funn Funerals, the muted sounds of debate still rising in tone and fervor through the windows.

 

**X X X X X X**

 

It was that evening, while revising his plans for the cemetery light show, that Chapman was visited for the first time. He adjusted his glass of light ale so it would stop leaving water marks on the cemetary blueprints, making sketches for where to put the spotlight tripods.

Suddenly, he heard a quiet screech, seemingly feet away from his head. He bolted up with alertness he had learned the hard way — many years ago. There was no one in the room with him. Laughing hesitantly to himself, Chapman settled back down.

When he woke up the next morning, his bedroom window had been thrown open, and the blueprints were soggy with last night’s rain. Chapman checked his window latch, frowning at the intact hook that had seemingly opened of its own accord.

The next evening, Chapman was pouring over his backup copy of blueprints when his front doorbell rang.

“Coming!” he said by instinct, though he was five floors away and his house was completely soundproofed. After grabbing a flashlight, he wound down the stairs to throw open the door, to . . . nothing. The square that led up to his shop was completely empty.

“Hello?” Chapman called, craning his neck around. There wasn't even the shadow of someone retreating into the evening darkness.

“Right then,” he said with forced cheer, and closed and locked the door behind him.

The following four days were a pattern of the same-- windows coming unlocked in the middle of the night, equipment ruined, and the disembodied ringing of the doorbell at odd hours. He thought about asking Rudyard about it-- to be honest, the list of people on Piffling Vale who regularly tried to sabotage him was pretty short. But then he thought about Antigone’s warning and immediately felt ashamed. If Rudyard was trying to turn over a new leaf, Chapman mused while double locking his windows, then that could only be a good thing. He certainly didn’t need any more competitive seagull funerals or near-death mine experiences in his life. After all, he had four dozen croissants to bake, and the final details of a cemetery light show to plan.

Worse still, Chapman thought, as he stapled a poster for the light show inches from the door of Funn Funerals, was the possibility that it was all in his head— that he was slowly going mad in his soundproofed five-story funeral parlor/coffee shop/bakery and no one was really around to notice.

By Thursday, Chapman was nodding off at his desk, his signature “enjoy yourself” getting more and more strained.

On Friday morning, Chapman awoke to find his croissants ruined by an open third-floor window, and a single, small white feather resting on the sill.

 

**X X X X X**

 

Friday morning began much like any other. Antigone's embalming machine was humming comfortingly from the basement, as Rudyard was hard at work adding prospective names to his “Piffling Vale Death Watch List,” arguing good-naturedly with Genevieve about whether Mrs. Heywood’s cough was the rattle of oncoming pneumonia.

Then Chapman kicked the door in. Reader, I grabbed my pen.

“Dear God, are we under attack?” Antigone snapped, coming up from the basement. “Oh, hello, Chapman.”

“Hello Eric,” Georgie said from the corner, looking unimpressed. Rudyard rose from his crouch underneath the counter warily.

“That creature,” Chapman spat, “perching in your shop like the patron god of charming ineptitude--”

“--Genevieve isn’t a creature.”

“--The patron God of  _what_?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Chapman looked the closest to unhinged that I’ve ever seen him— his hair almost required brushing. I made a quick sketch on the back of my post-it note to describe in more detail later. “She’s been haunting me.”

“Genevieve!” Antigone gasped, “is that true?”

Genevieve shrieked at Chapman in a manner that could only be described as smug.

“What did she say?” Chapman demanded. “Dear god, I can’t believe that I’m actually demanding a translation from an owl.”

Antigone and Georgie swiveled to look at Rudyard, who was attempting to look as innocent as possible. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, with a poor attempt at a poker face.

Antigone sighed and put her face into her hands. “Christ, Rudyard, seriously?”

“She was bored!’ Rudyard protested.

“What, so you convinced her that psychological warfare was a fine pastime?”

Genevieve screeched with delight.

“Let me get this straight,” Chapman said, bracing himself against one of the walls. “Do you mean to tell me that this entire time, when you’ve been pretending to give up this supposed rivalry, you’ve actually spent hours on an intricate plan to sabotage my sanity and well-being? With an owl?”

“More or less,” Rudyard admitted. “Wait, what do you mean _supposed_ rivalry?”

Chapman sagged further into the wall. “Oh, thank god,” he mumbled.

Antigone looked at him in horror. “What?”

“ _Supposed_ rivalry?” Rudyard pressed on, totally oblivious. “What do you call shepherd-shaped fireworks? Those pastoral abominations were the clearest declaration of war since the sinking of the Lusitania!”

Chapman looked blearily up at him “I thought you didn’t notice it.”

“What, British naval history? I was trying to impress Major Guildenstern before his untimely demise, but actually it’s quite fascinating--”

“--he means the fireworks, Rudyard,” Georgie interjected, still looking at Eric oddly. He was in the process of actually sliding down the wall, settling on the floor in exhaustion.

“Chapman,” Antigone said slowly, “Are you actually disappointed that we haven’t been trying to sabotage your funerals?”

Chapman sighed. “It’s better than nothing.”

Funn Funerals was, for a moment, totally silent.

“You know,” Chapman said, struggling to break the quiet, “it’s not bad down here.”

Rudyard gently transferred Genevieve onto the counter and sat down on the floor near him. “Well, yes. I’ve always thought so.”

 

**X X X X**

 

Several days later, Rudyard fidgeted at the front of Chapman’s, his hand dancing uncomfortably in front of the door. I gave him an encouraging speech from his shoulder, where I had happily re-taken up residence since Guinevere's departure.

“Chapman” he finally called, knocking on the door insistently. ‘You there Chapman? Champman, you there Chapman? Chap-”

Chapman opened the door, neatly dodging Rudyard’s first, which was still knocking mid-air. “Yes, hello, Rudyard,” he said.

“Now look here, Chapman,” Rudyard said haltingly, trying to pronounce the phrase with less of his ordinary derision. “I have something for you.”

Chapman eyed the basket Rudyard was holding warily. “Is it a water balloon?”

“No.”

“Or a cherry bomb?”

“No, of course not, don’t be silly.” Rudyard sputtered. “Why would I give you a bomb?”

“Why, indeed,” Chapman said evenly. I noticed that he was back to his regular groomed self again.

The piece of cloth at the top of the basket moved. Chapman looked at it with unease.

“It’s not a bomb!” Rudyard insisted, and drew back the blanket. There was a small brownish rabbit twitching his nose inside.

“He’s for you.” Rudyard said, as if someone was forcing the words out of him at gunpoint. “I thought he might you feel less alone.”

Chapman looked at him with disbelief. “You brought me a rabbit?”

“Yes, well, given recent events, I thought you might prefer something less . . .”

“Predatory?” Chapman asked, still fairly astonished by the wiggling bundle of fur in the basket.

“Sure. Anyway, Genevieve tried to give me it as a goodbye present, but he wasn’t actually dead, and Georgie was able to patch it up in time for a full recovery.”

“I’m great at reviving rabbits!” Georgie called triumphantly from across the square, where she and Antigone were hovering outside of Funn Funerals with Rudyard’s binoculars.

“Rudyard,” Chapman said patiently, “You know, I can’t actually talk to animals.”

“Yes,” Rudyard said smugly, “Well, we can’t all be gifted communicators.”

Georgie cleared her throat loudly from across the square.

“Right,” Rudyard said, “I thought I could perhaps ‘hang out’ a bit more. Act as your translator.”

Chapman stared at him.

“Not in any official capacity,” Rudyard said hastily. “Obviously you’re still the competition. Funn Funerals is still actively planning your professional demise. ”

Chapman continued to stare at him.

“You don’t have to take him,” Rudyard snapped, reaching back and unsuccessfully trying to disengage Chapman’s death grip on the basket. “You shouldn’t adopt an animal you don’t want, Chapman, it’s not responsible--”

“No,” Chapman finally said, looking slightly dazed and moving his grip from the basket to Rudyard’s arm. “No, I do want him.”

 

Georgie lowered the binoculars, looking satisfied.

“What’s going on?” Antigone asked, squinting and trying to grab the binoculars from Georgie.

“I think you’d probably be better off not,” Georgie said, grinning and holding them out of her reach.

Petunia Bloom stopped dead by them, following their gaze across the square. “Ain’t that Eric Chapman and that Rudyard Funn?”

“Yep,” Georgie said.

“ _Well,_ ” she said dazedly, and then sniffed “What a waste. Mr. Chapman could certainly do better.”

“Piss off,” Georgie said casually, still grinning as a far-off screech echoed through the trees.


End file.
